was over. We shouldn’t have seen one another again because it’s made this moment harder for both of us.”
They sat silent during the remainder of the ride. Before her stop, Juli asked, “Will I still see you on the early bus Monday? It will give us a chance to think over the weekend.”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
The bus stopped. Mihaly touched her hand lightly. She stared into his eyes, felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him. But she stood, said good night, which seemed inappropriate because the sun was still high in the sky, and left the bus.
Juli looked back as the bus pulled away and saw several passengers watching her. But Mihaly looked straight ahead, his pointed nose and small chin accelerating his movement away from her. The bus resembled the wall of a gallery devoted to portraits of melancholy. Sad faces, brooding faces. And this on a Friday evening before a spring weekend.
Juli turned and walked to her apartment, wondering about a world in which machines took over the lives of the workers. But most of all, she wondered if Pripyat, a town populated to service the Chernobyl reactor, a town neither rural nor urban, was a place in which a child could be raised properly by a single mother.
9
Friday night in Ukraine was a night of celebration. Even farmers, merchants, and teachers who worked Saturday used Friday night as an excuse to consume large quantities of vodka and wine. Another week of toil was officially over, and one deserved to overindulge.
The result of overindulgence was often a deep, satisfying sleep. For many, Saturday began with snores and dreams and, sometimes, nightmares.
Of course, not everyone drank on Friday evening. Major Grigor Komarov of the KGB, for example, had attended a concert featuring the works of Prokofiev at the Philharmonia with his wife. He had consumed not one drop of vodka, not even at dinner beforehand.
Now, after midnight, he lay awake in bed, listening to the gentle breathing of his wife. Although he knew exactly where a full bottle of vodka was located, could visualize its sparkle in the rear corner of the cupboard, he was determined to get through the night without a drink. Even if he could not sleep, he would not drink.
Instead of drinking, and instead of sleeping, Komarov lay awake thinking. He thought about recognition. He imagined elaborate schemes and stratagems to bring the name Major Grigor Komarov to the attention of the KGB’s chairman in Moscow. He thought about awards and promotions. But even with these thoughts, the bottle in the cupboard tormented him and kept him from dreaming these dreams in the fantasy world of sleep.
Tonight he and his wife sat in the balcony at the concert. He recalled looking down upon the heads on the main floor and imagining himself dancing about on those heads to Prokofiev’s music.
He imagined using his knife to create a crime he would eventually solve. While the music played, he reached into his pocket and held the knife. He must have smiled because at one point his wife touched his knee. After the concert on their way home, his wife commented on his change of mood the last few weeks, and they engaged in the playful banter they had practiced when they were younger.
“You seem happier, Grigor. I couldn’t help but notice. And I’m certain your superiors will notice.”
“You’re referring to my drinking, of course.”
“I thought it might be bad luck to bring it up.”
“It’s not bad luck, dearest. I’m a new man, free from the bottle.
My energy has returned, and I’ve taken more interest in my job.”
“Ferreting out the enemies of Communism?”
“Perhaps, my dear, pointing out the dangers of capitalism.”
“Are you referring to my spending habits, Grigor?”
“Your fur wrap might not be needed on such a warm April evening.”
“For one who espouses rigid principles, one would think you are an Islamist, Grigor.”
“Not me. Religious fanatics keep to themselves and hate civilized communist society. Look at all the problems in Afghanistan from these so-called cultures.”
“I thought you hated Gypsies, Grigor. Now your hatred extends to Islamists?”
“Gypsies, Islamists, they’re one and the same. Insane, male-dominated societies. Did I tell you about my boyhood in the slums of Moscow among Gypsies? They allow their children to smoke.
Eight-and nine-year-old Gypsy boys smoking while the men create swindles and the women read palms. As for Islamists, the men treat their women like animals, making them cover themselves from head to toe in horse blankets. Religion, fundamentalism, and superstition will cause the end of the world if we’re not careful.”
“You’re quite the philosopher tonight, Grigor.”
“Abandoning the bottle has awakened my intellect.”
“I’m happy for you, Grigor.”
Tonight, for the first time in over a year, Komarov and his wife made love. But in the darkness of the room, Komarov thought only of Gretchen. While his wife moaned beneath him, he played back the scene again, this time to the music of Prokofiev. He closed his eyes and saw Gretchen staring at him in those moments before the knife went in.
After his wife was asleep and the night continued its journey, Komarov lay awake, alternately thinking of the vodka bottle in the cupboard, the look on Gretchen’s face as she died, the Gypsy witch from the past named Barbara, and of schemes, yet unrealized, as perfect as the Sherbitsky affair.
In central Kiev, Detective Lazlo Horvath of the Kiev militia was also not asleep. Sleep, he hoped, would come much later, perhaps near dawn. The reason he did not want to sleep was because Tamara was in his bed.
It was dark in the room. Lazlo rested his head on Tamara’s breast. He could hear her heartbeat. When he spoke, his upper lip brushed against her nipple.
“Can we stay like this forever, Tamara?”
“In this position, or at this age?”
“Both. Especially this age. The position…” He touched her thigh and gently spread her legs. “The position I would like to alter quite soon.”
Tamara laughed. “I know you would. That’s why I’m staying awake.”
“You’re a spring flower.”
Tamara laughed and pulled at his ear. “Spring flower? You’ve had too much wine.”
“I had to drink it before the campaign against alcoholism began.”
“Last year it had the reverse effect,” said Tamara. “When does this campaign begin?”
“May Day,” said Lazlo. “We have only a few days to consume all the Hungarian wine in Kiev. The local wine and the vodka we’ll leave to others.”
“When Kiev runs out of alcohol and everyone becomes sober and ethical, what will the Kiev militia do?”
“With no criminals, we’ll most likely be ordered to crack down on literary journalists.”
“Even members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union?”
“Especially members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union. You are the provocateurs who exposed lapses in construction quality at the Chernobyl reactors.”
Tamara giggled. “We are spies.”
“Better not to say it.”
“Why?” asked Tamara.
“Because there really are spies everywhere. My boss wanted me to do a little espionage the other day.”
“No.”
“When I asked for permission to drive to Pripyat to visit my brother, Chkalov tells me to visit the militia station and check on the captain there. And now, if you are finished questioning me, I’m hungry.”
Lazlo lifted his head and moved atop Tamara, who opened beneath him like a vast warm valley. Her tongue filled his mouth and made him feel as though he would never have to eat or drink again.
In the distance, as their breathing quickened, the bell of Saint Andrew’s Church tolled the one o’clock hour.
